


A Time to Heal

by OutOfTheShadows



Series: A Time for Every Purpose [1]
Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Healing Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 07:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15068150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfTheShadows/pseuds/OutOfTheShadows
Summary: After the three of them head out arm-in-arm, a new story begins ---





	A Time to Heal

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: About history, TV canon, and PTSD
> 
> This is the first story in what I hope to be my “A Time for Every Purpose” series.
> 
> It is impossible to reconcile what we saw on the Versailles TV series with actual history. For example, Philippe’s sons with Liselotte were born in 1673 and 1674 – and Philippe’s triumphant returns from war were in, to the best of my knowledge, 1667 (while still married to Henriette) and 1677 or 1678 – there were no newborn baby boys to see when he came back from war. The Chevalier de Lorraine was still in exile in Italy during the early part of Philippe and Liselotte’s marriage, so most of series 2 could not have happened as written. Also, by the time Queen Maria Therese died, her son, the Dauphin, was already married and had a son himself. And, Liselotte and Chevy did not make peace with each other until they were much older, in the 1690s. I could go on and on but you get the point. So, for these stories, I am going to be blending some canon, some actual history, and some imagination. I hope it works for me, and for you.
> 
> Philippe was dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) after his return from war in series 1, but he appeared to have a worse time of it after coming home in series 3. Some signs of PTSD include: Nightmares (and always sleeping alone for fear that someone else will see you having a nightmare), flashbacks, depression, anxiety, withdrawal (from relationships and past activities), engaging in risky, acting-out behavior, attempting to repress or block memories (often by obsessively throwing oneself into one’s work), emotional numbing (if one is not feeling anything at all, then one is feeling no pain), social isolation, irritability, guilt, and shame. Often, if a person with PTSD feels safe at all, it will only be with others who have shared the same terrible experience. People with PTSD have survived terrible things outside of their control; they need to exert control themselves; they blame themselves for things that were not their fault; they believe that if people knew what they did, those people would run away, so a survivor with PTSD will push people away so, at least, the survivor has control over how the relationship ends. Sounds like series 3 Philippe, no?
> 
> I have not read much Versailles fan fiction yet, any resemblance between my writing and anything you may have read elsewhere is, truly, purely coincidental. This is my first Versailles fanfic. I hope you like this, please leave your comments, and thank you.

Liselotte was steering them down the hall, one of her men linked into each elbow. They were all three together, all three headed in the same direction.

Philippe looked over Liselotte’s curly head to his lover’s face. He always was, and always would be, the most beautiful thing in Philippe’s world. Maybe they could make it work this time – maybe they could get beyond the powders, the jealousy, Thomas, the war, his own fears and what he had become – maybe – Liselotte was saying something.

“I wasn’t sure when you two had last eaten. I arranged for some cold roast fowl, bread, and fresh fruit in our salon.” She steered Philippe and the Chevalier to the Orleans’ suite private salon. They sat down at the table, Liselotte digging into the food with her usual gusto, the Chevalier slowly starting to eat a piece of fowl, and Philippe putting some food on his plate and staring at it.

“Philippe, it is quail, your favorite, I specifically asked for quail. Please try to eat.” The Chevalier shook his head in agreement. “Darling, must I ask you? What can you gain by not eating that would not be better accomplished full?”

Philippe froze, staring down at his plate _. Quail. Quail._ The last time he had eaten quail was when they had just left the battle at Cassel, when Jean-Marc had brought him a ---

There was a small storage room, off the salon, that held tableware, linens, and a chamber pot. Philippe barely got to the chamber pot before he started vomiting.

The vomit just kept coming – _He hadn’t eaten solid food in days, where the hell was it coming from?_ He felt his lover behind him, his arms wrapped around him; his wife was holding his hair back. Time passed, he was not sure how much. Eventually, the vomiting stopped. He was on one of the couches, cradled in his lover’s arms, his legs over his wife’s lap, both of them holding him.

And it was all flooding back into his consciousness, all the things he had tried so hard to bury, all the things that he had tried to keep at bay by not allowing himself to feel anything for anyone. He had now let himself feel. And now it was all there: The blood, the bodies, the severed limbs, the ordering men to die, the resulting widows and orphans, the aloneness, his own cruelty, his father – my God, his own father. He had to get away – before they knew – he could not let them know what he had become – he tried to roll off the couch, but four strong arms would not let him.

“Let me GO!”

“No, Philippe, I will not let you. I said “I Love You”, and I meant it.”

“And neither will I. I am weary of you two hurting each other – and me – you WILL tell us what is on your heart.”

“NO!”

“Yes. You have no alternative” Liselotte continued, “I told you that families stick together. Part of that means sharing what is on our hearts. Do you seriously think it will do either of us – or the children – any good for you to run away? You have been running away ever since you came back from the war. This ends, now.”

Philippe gave up on moving and settled for crying, his face rolled against his lover’s body, _how long had it been since he had been close enough to breathe in his peach and vanilla cologne, his body’s unique scent?_    How could the Chevalier possibly love him if he knew what he had done, what he had become?

“Please” he whimpered, “please let me go”.

“Not until you tell me why you pushed me away, why you humiliated me, why you were so cruel, when I know now that you never stopped loving me?” Philippe looked up into those magnificent green eyes, full of tears, tears that belonged to him. He had to tell his love why, he owed him that, but how could he explain something that he, himself, could not understand, much less put into words?

“You don’t know what I did, the monster I have become – if you knew, you could not possibly love me.”

“Mignonette, how can you think so little of yourself -- and so little of me – you loved me through drunkenness, powders, gambling, irrational jealousy, petty manipulation – and now you think that I could not love you through whatever happened while you heroically commanded the armies of France?”

“Alexander is going to have brothers and sisters. You will not get rid of me, either.”

Philippe finally opened his eyes – he was a cruel, evil beast – and he would prove it to them. “When we approached the Dutch between Noordpeene and Zuytpeene – I ordered each lieutenant to select his bravest men, and then order them forward in small pockets, to confuse William into thinking this was the main attack – then we turned upon them and surprised the Dutch with a cavalry attack that practically destroyed three of their battalions – we routed their army, but at the loss of our bravest men – they marched on my command, not knowing they were on a suicide mission. I ordered our bravest men to die a painful, bloody, and violent death. Not just once, but again and again and again.”

The Chevalier de Lorraine tried to fathom this – his Mignonette, who begged for his touch and dropped to his knees to pleasure him – he had always known, of course, that Philippe commanded the army, but he had never truly thought – graphically -- of the impossible decisions that that involved – “You did what you had to do to win the war and save countless other lives. I am proud of you, my love.”

“War is never pretty, Philippe, but these were men in battle, you did not kill innocents, as your brother did”, Liselotte added.

Philippe’s voice turned hard, savage. “I did not? When we were near Penebeek a woman and her children stumbled upon our camp – we could see they were Dutch, they said their horse had gone lame, their wagon was about a mile away. We could not risk them reporting our location, so we kept them under guard overnight and I had four of my men bring them back to their wagon, with a fresh horse, in the morning, and take them several miles away – to ensure that we would meet William before they could get to his forces. We found them three days later – all dead – the oldest boy, about ten, had tried to defend his family with an axe – and the mother – before they killed them, whoever did it – they, they – “

Liselotte closed her eyes. A woman, alone with her children, in the woods, violated by some roaming group of criminal men. “Philippe, you could not possibly have known that this would happen to them.”

“But I could have kept them prisoners in our camp. I made the decision to let them go and they died a terrible death.”

“Darling, you did not know. You are not God. You could not possibly have known.”

Philippe pressed his eyes shut, if those two stories did not work, this one would. They would see him for what he was, he would go away, and they could be a family together, happy. They did not need him anyway.

“Do you want to hear more? Do you want to hear about Lt. Jean-Marc Beaulieu?”

The Chevalier steeled himself. He feared what was coming.

“Lt. Beaulieu joined my personal unit just after the Battle of Cassel – we had such terrific losses, I couldn’t sleep, I had to keep up appearances for my men – as soon as Jean-Marc Beaulieu arrived – I could tell that he shared my – preferences – I can always tell when a man does, from half a league away. We said nothing about it, and then one evening, while we were still recovering from Cassel, he hunted down a couple of quail, and had them roasted for my dinner – I wasn’t eating much, either. How he knew I fancied quail, I never knew. That night, he came to my tent.” Huge, fat tears were flowing down Philippe’s cheeks – “Jean-Marc was beautiful with golden hair – and I let him take me. The next night, I let him have me again – I knew that he loved me, but I was using him like a powder, like strong wine, like a memory, I was his commanding officer, it was so wrong – the next morning I promoted him and had him transferred to another unit. He did not say anything – but the pain in his eyes – five weeks later I found out he had died in battle. He was only twenty-four – he is dead, because I was not strong enough to turn him away. Because I was too weak to stay loyal to the two of you.”

The Chevalier knew he was crying – partly out of grief for his love, partly out of anger, partly out of disappointment, wishing Philippe had been stronger – but what could be said of his own fidelity? “My love, you were in the strain of the battlefield – you forgave my infidelities while I sat here in Versailles, in the lap of luxury. How can I not do the same for you?”

Liselotte pondered all that she had heard, and drew in her breath “Philippe, if you think you will drive us away by telling us what you did, you are mistaken. I you think we think less of you because you did what you had to do stay alive and win the war for France, you are mistaken. And if you think we are not strong enough to see you through this, you are mistaken. However, I do insist that you stop hiding. The Chevalier and I need YOU. Our children need YOU. We are a family.” With that Liselotte leaned into the Chevalier’s shoulder, and they all stayed that way for a long while, gaining strength from each other’s touch.

\------------

After a time, Liselotte quietly got up and left. After she departed, the Chevalier said gently, “You will sleep better in bed, Mignonette. Time for sleep.” Philippe let him help him up and steer him toward his room. Philippe dropped to the bed, laying on his side, too tired to move. “There’s a nightshirt of yours in the cupboard, top shelf, if you want.”

The Chevalier smiled gently. Philippe might be too tired to breathe, but he wanted him to stay. “You are utterly wicked, you know, keeping one of my nightshirts in here with you all this time.” Not moving, Philippe half-grunted a retort. He quickly found the nightshirt, moved around to Philippe’s back and got changed. “Do you want me to find something for you to sleep in?”

“No, I am too tired.”

The Chevalier settled into Philippe’s back – how long had it been since he had felt Philippe against him?

In five minutes, they were both fast asleep.

\-----------

The Chevalier was knocked awake by a blow to his nose. Philippe’s arms were swinging madly, half-animal cries coming out of Philippe’s throat.

“Philippe! Wake up!”

Philippe went still, his eyes open, wild with fear, until he realized where – and when – he was.

“Did I hurt you?” Philippe asked softly. They were now lying on the bed, face to face, hands intertwined on the pillows between them, The Chevalier in his nightshirt and Philippe still in his shirt and breeches.

The Chevalier rubbed his nose, a bit comically, attempting to lighten the mood. “No.”

“Are you still sure that this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

“There is more, something I did not tell the two of you before, you must not tell anyone, not even Liselotte. I am not sure if she ever should know.   I am not, by blood, a Prince of France, I am a murderer. I killed my own father.”

And then Philippe told his lover the whole story: How he found the man in the mask, who the masked man was, and how Louis, with his cooperation, had ensured their own father’s eternal silence.

The Chevalier tried to take this all in – and resolved that it changed nothing. “Mignonette, I have always loved you for you, not because you were the king’s brother, or a Prince of France. That will never change. It will take time, but I will try my hardest to understand.” Philippe looked so vulnerable, so much like the creature – that creature that was somehow, at the same time, male and female, adult and child – that same creature that the Chevalier had first fallen in love with, all those years ago.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Philippe let out a slow breath. There was still more on his heart, things he needed to say, if they were going to try a life together again. “I am proud of you. You have learned to look beyond the moment, beyond yourself.”

“Do you regret how I learned these things?”

“Who am I to object, or to judge? I was not there for you. I ordered you away.”

“You should know that I never stopped loving you.”

“And I never stopped loving you”

A quiet moment passed, each of them content simply to be together.

“I want to bring our children – all three of them – back here as soon as possible. They have spent enough time away from their parents” -- a soft smile started on Philippe’s face – “All three of their parents”.

The Chevalier warmed at the full meaning of Philippe’s words -- “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

The next subject was, perhaps, the hardest. “Have you been sleeping with Liselotte?”

“No.”

“Do you want to start?”

“No – I have not had many friends in my life, and she is the best friend I have ever had. I don’t want to complicate that. And I love you more than anything, ever, ever, and forever.” The Chevalier kissed Philippe’s finger tips and gave him a half-grin. “And, Mignonette, we always seem to have enough trouble without adding cause for more.”

Another silent moment, and Philippe began again “Louis relieved you of your position, did he not?”

“Maintenon did, which, judging from everything I see, is just as good Louis’ personal decree, signed in his hand and marked with his seal.”

“Then I have something I want you to do, for --” Philippe’s voice slowed to emphasize the next words “our family.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I have never been that good at finances – judging values, making arrangements. You have a talent for these things. A few years ago, you told me that France could not stand forever ruled my one man. After what I have seen since the war, I cannot disagree with you, if I ever could have. What we live now will not continue forever. I want my children to be financially independent of the crown. Would you take over our household’s finances? Manage them to ensure our family’s security?”

“If that is what you want me to do, I will do it to the best of my ability.”

“I do have every faith in your financial skills.”

“And why not? No one can resist my charm, wit, and impeccable good looks.”

Philippe smiled, glad to see that flamboyant flippancy that he had sorely missed. It felt good to smile. “And you will personally receive twenty percent of any gain you earn for our household, as payment for your efforts.”

The Chevalier grinned back, and then went serious. “I will accept your percentage, but only after I pay back the four hundred thousand francs of yours that I lost gambling while drunk.”

“Agreed.”

Philippe contemplated it all for another minute. It was all out there now, and the Chevalier was still there, lying on his bed, holding his hands. “Do you remember our first night together?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember how you made me tremble?”

“Yes.”

“Do it again.”

\----------------

The Chevalier rolled on top of Philippe, feeling Philippe’s arms and legs wrap around him; it was the most secure place that either of them had ever known. Kisses followed, deep and passionate, and Philippe bared his throat – The Chevalier would never forget what this meant, what Philippe was asking for, as he gently bit and sucked his Mignonette’s long, pale neck, leaving a mark as Philippe writhed beneath him. The Chevalier slid down Philippe’s body and untied his breeches, relishing the little whines rising out of Philippe’s throat.

Philippe could not make a coherent thought, much less words – he was, once again, nestled next to his lover, the man who had rescued him from the shadows, and given him the courage to become all that was good within him. There never had been, was not now, and never would be another like him.

They were on kneeling now, facing each other on the bed. They each raised their arms so the other could remove their shirts, and there they finally were: Fingers intertwined, tongues probing, bodies pressed together from shoulders to groin, rutting against each other, hot, hungry, the Chevalier’s growling and Philippe’s soft moans floating between them. Hands started moving over each other, rediscovering each other after months of separation, Philippe trembling uncontrollably under the Chevalier’s touch, until the Chevalier’s fingers found the scar on Philippe’s side, just above his hip, about a hand’s length long.

Tears came to Philippe’s eyes, “I am sorry that I am no longer perfect for you.”

“You will always be perfect for me, darling, please tell me what happened.”

“I remember pain, I remember blood, I remembering trying to command my men, I don’t remember what happened.”

“Please tell me each memory as they come back to you. Promise me that, Philippe. “

Philippe was torn, reluctant, but managed, “I promise”.

“And if you feel that you simply cannot tell me, please remember, I know what it is like to hit bottom – I was so afraid I was losing you, first to Liselotte and then to Thomas, I nearly destroyed us both.   I won’t pretend to understand what you faced in the war, or with Louis and your father, but there is nothing that you could say or do that would ever end my love for you.”

“Or mine for you” Philippe whispered.

The Chevalier’s hands went back to Philippe’s sides, Philippe was, if possible, even paler and leaner than he been before the war. He started to lay Philippe back down on the bed, but Philippe slid away, off the bed, kneeling beside it, intent unmistakable.

This was something that the Chevalier could never refuse; Philippe’s tongue over his cock, over its head, working its way into the slit, then swirling and kissing its way down to his cock’s base. Philippe took him all the way down his throat in one motion; how he could do this without gagging the Chevalier never understood. Philippe continued to worship his lover’s cock with mouth and tongue until the Chevalier could last no longer, and, howling in release, he spent his seed and collapsed back onto the bed, Philippe swallowing the Chevalier’s seed and licking his cock clean before joining him back on the bed.

They stayed that way for a while, allowing liquid muscles to regain their strength, cuddled together, a long nightmare over, and new dream beginning.

Eventually the Chevalier chuckled, Philippe looking at him with a quiet “What?”.

“You are still so good at that”.

Then Philippe felt the Chevalier lay him back onto the bed, and he surrendered to him completely -- he felt his lover’s hands touch every inch of flesh, his mouth kiss every inch of his being, Philippe was helpless, writhing beneath his Chevalier, begging.

“Cock – inside – please – now – please -- fuck --"

“Mignonette, oil?” Philippe heard the words but they didn’t register at first, then he swung one arm toward the table on the right side of the bed, hoping the Chevalier understood.

The Chevalier dug in the table’s drawer and found a small bottle of oil; the writing on it was in Dutch; it smelled of lilacs and damp, sweet spring grasses. He removed the stopper with his teeth, and, attempting to hold Philippe still with one hand, poured the oil over Philippe’s cock and balls, while his Mignonette’s hips bucked and his hands clutched madly at the bed.

Slipping a cushion under Philippe’s hips, the Chevalier found his lover’s hole with one well-oiled finger, and slowly began stroking that sensitive spot inside – gradually adding a second and third finger – bending and twisting them to catch Philippe in just the right place – while Philippe released sounds somewhere between guttural moans and mewls and thrashed so hard the Chevalier could barely keep him on the bed. Philippe was brilliant, brave, beautiful and wild as the whole pounding ocean – unable to wait any longer, the Chevalier poured oil over his own cock, cast the bottle aside, placed the tip of his cock into Philippe’s hole, and, roaring like a lion, took his prize in one, smooth thrust.

Philippe screamed like a whore, which only drove the Chevalier to thrust harder; he knew neither of them would last for long. He stroked Philippe’s cock in time with his own thrusts, and they came together, the Chevalier dropping onto the bed next to his love, face buried in ebony, silken hair.

\----------------

They woke up tangled together, neither sure whose limbs were whose but neither considering that question particularly important. Then they both, as the same time, smelled warm food, and lifted their heads simultaneously to see the table laid out with dinner: Mutton au jus, the season’s fresh vegetables, and orange-flavored macrons.

“She does tend to think of everything, doesn’t she?” the Chevalier shook his head and Philippe smiled in return.

“I am hungry” Philippe declared, much to the Chevalier’s delight, and they rolled out of bed, the Chevalier throwing on his nightshirt and Philippe a handy robe as they proceeded toward the food. On the corner of the table, they found a note, in Liselotte’s clear, precise, unmistakable hand.

_“Eat. I will make some excuse for the two of not being in mass this morning, but I do expect a walk in the gardens with both of you before lunch.”_

For the first time in memory, food tasted good to Philippe, and, encouraged by his lover, he managed to clear a full plate.

As soon as they finished eating, they headed back to the bed, mouths and hips pressed together as they moved across the room, tumbling together down into the linens. Philippe nuzzled the Chevalier’s face and growled softly.

The Chevalier remembered what this meant, as well.

Philippe found the piece of fur in the other bedside table, a fur softer than the finest silk, softer than the gentlest touch, and they began to leisurely stroke each other with it, arousing each other’s appetites all over again. When they could stand no more Philippe got onto his hands and knees, and the Chevalier entered him from behind, starting his thrusts painfully slow, moving out and in, so just the tip of his cock was still inside, and then thrusting his whole length back in, again and again and again, feeling Philippe clench down on him with each drive, watching Philippe’s hair fly like a wild stallion’s mane with each arch of his back.

Philippe dropped to his elbows, arms unable to support his weight. His own cock was as hard as marble, he felt it leaking, and then he felt his lover’s golden hands around it. The Chevalier’s pace quickened, Philippe pressed back into him as hard as he could, and with a shared cry, they both came again, Philippe dropping face down into the pillows and the Chevalier collapsing on top of him.

After a few seconds, the Chevalier rolled them both onto their sides, still inside his lover. Philippe, completely limp and sated, could manage only a soft whimper.

“All is well, Mignonette. Sweet dreams.”

They laid there, spooned together, until their breaths became slow and regular, and both were sound asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> The Battle of Cassel was an actual, historical battle in which Philippe led the armies of France. The city names mentioned – and the overall description of the strategy -- are from the historical battle.
> 
> The meaning of the French surname Beaulieu is “beautiful place”.


End file.
